White Lies
by Tavyn
Summary: Prompt: S1 Missing Scene. From episode 1x4, "White Knight," Leonard and Sara have a little chat after he returns from his night at the ballet with Valentina. "I'm sure kissing her was nothing like kissing you would be."


**Author's Note:** For the FiccingCaptainCanary prompt, S1 Missing Moment. If you guys remember 1x4 and how amazing Leonard looked in that outfit, maybe you feel as robbed as I did that we never got to see Sara's reaction to it. Hopefully this makes up for it a little! Also, if you follow my story "Back to Me", this scene kind of ties into the upcoming chapter (which, fingers crossed, I'll get posted this weekend). Thanks to ClaudiaRain and Crazygirlne for reading this over for me. I hope you enjoy it!

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Sara was having a bad day.

A running theme in her life, really, so she wasn't sure what made this one feel so much worse. Maybe it was that she'd actually had hope for one measly moment, that day she'd first stepped aboard the Waverider. And now, every bad day since was just culminating in this one, piling on top of one another, on and on and honestly, she felt ready to snap.

But who was she kidding? She already had.

Not only had she failed to teach Kendra anything about controlling her powers during their sparring lesson, she'd lost _herself_ to the bloodlust. Goddamn hypocrite was all she was. She'd probably never forget the sight of Kendra's petrified face as she'd choked her, eyes so round it was almost cartoonish, almost unreal, except that it was all too terribly real. Her biggest fear: killing one of her teammates, someone she cared about, and showing them all the monster she really was.

Instead of wishing for the umpteenth time that they'd just lock her in the brig already (did they all have a death wish?) she told herself to blame Rip. Because seriously, who puts one lunatic in charge of another?

 _We're all cursed to live the next day,_ he'd told her, _to get better. And you will, too_.

But Rip was wrong. She wasn't getting better. She was just getting worse.

And then _he'd_ come in.

Ray had already made the rounds, complaining loudly and unrelentingly about how much Leonard had enjoyed playing Valentina. How unfair it was that he'd been freezing in the rain while Leonard got a kiss. She wasn't sure if she was more annoyed with Ray, or him.

Why couldn't she have the mission to seduce the sexy Russian scientist? Rip and his gender norms, probably, even if she was sure she could've done it in half the time.

Instead, she'd been forced into that disaster of a "training session" with Kendra. When things had gone south she'd retreated to the fabrication room, trying to take her mind off what a spectacular failure she was by having Gideon make her new knives. But in Nanda Parbat she'd forged her own blades, and this felt so empty in comparison. She'd been sharpening them, trying to put at least some of herself into them when she'd heard footsteps coming toward the door.

The fabrication room was becoming something of a makeshift locker room for the team. It was where they'd change right into their new outfits when they had no time to spare getting out on a mission. There were several piles of clothes strewn about the various surfaces, discarded, forgotten or abandoned by their motley crew. Glancing around the room, Sara realized that most of it belonged to her (and she had no intention of cleaning it up).

But there was one neat pile that caught her eye, and she remembered Ray and Leonard's mission. Ray had already come for his clothes, so she didn't even look up when she heard the footsteps stop, felt the way Leonard lingered at the door when he realized she was there.

"At least someone had a good night," she said, not bothering to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. Despite herself, she turned to look at him – and regretted it immediately.

Prick, of _course_ he'd be dashing in a tux. She flicked her eyes down.

"Someone's jealous," he noted, meandering inside, moving in that slow, deliberate way of his, taking in every detail like he'd be back to rob the place later. Probably already had, and was just remembering it fondly.

"I don't get jealous." She refused to look up again as he approached, even when he stopped right in front of her, with nothing but her workstation between them.

"Oh, _and_ you're a liar," he teased.

She hated the way he always talked like that, like he was tasting every word as he said it. She hated even more how she wasn't hating it as much, lately. She couldn't afford to let him grow on her.

She snorted, putting extra weight on her blade as she sharpened, satisfied by the threatening sound it made. "Pot, meet kettle."

"I never said I wasn't a liar," he murmured.

And that was the other thing – she hated how hot she felt under his gaze. She could always feel it, always knew when his eyes were trained on her, could always imagine exactly how dark or bright they'd be without looking. She imagined them now.

"There's room for all kinds of lies in this world," he added. "Which ones do you tell yourself, Lance?"

"How about you, Leonard?" she countered. "I wouldn't be surprised if you'd never spoken a true word in your life."

"Here's a few," he started, and she swore his voice dropped an entire octave. "I'm sure kissing her was nothing like kissing you would be."

Oh, so _that's_ why he thought she was jealous. Ridiculous, arrogant, self-centered –

But then he draped his arms over the metal counter between them, leaning down until his face was level with hers, forcing her to finally, finally meet his eyes. And she swallowed, all thoughts gone. Because they were exactly as blue as she'd thought they'd be.

For a moment, she may have forgotten how to breathe. She may have forgotten that she was angry, that she was tired, that she was hurting. For a moment, her world was ice blue. And then he blinked, and she came back to herself, remembering how much she hated him _and_ his stupid eyes.

"Kissing me would probably end with more bloodshed than you're comfortable with," she said, sharpening her knife again and hoping she'd have the chance to use it.

"Maybe not," he paused, leaning in even closer. "If I was very good at it."

Against her will, her eyes darted to his lips. He smirked, and damn him – but he'd forced her hand. She'd have to come back from that. Her pride was at stake.

"Are you?" she asked, coyly, setting the knife and whetstone down. "Very good?"

She stepped around the work station, letting a hand trail along the counter as she moved toward him.

"Wouldn't you like to find out?" he asked, still smirking, still thinking he had the upper hand. Foolish.

She smiled, the special kind of smile she reserved only for her prey. Then she fanned herself, spinning on her heel and pulling her quarter-zip up and over her head in one fluid motion.

She tossed it lazily against the wall, lingering long enough to give him a healthy view of her back. Because her only top now was a sports bra, the kind that was long enough that it covered her worst scars, but not much else.

When she turned around, well, she couldn't say she had to pick his jaw up off the floor, exactly, she'd credit him that – but his eyebrows darted up, and his body stilled, and for maybe the first time ever, he was speechless.

"And what if I did?" she asked, slowly, sidling up to him. Leonard Snart, in the palm of her hand. The thought left her a little more pleased than she cared to admit.

If he'd been capable of speech, he probably would've asked for a moment to collect himself. As it was, he simply watched her, drinking her in, and leaving her feeling warm enough to be glad she was rid of her jacket. Finally, he swallowed, and asked, "What if you did what?"

She noticed his hand twitch. She smiled again, moving closer, until her bare stomach was practically brushing against his shirt.

"Want to find out," she prompted. "What it's like." She met his eyes. "To kiss you."

"Well," he drawled. "You'd have to wait for the right moment. I'm a romantic, you see."

His mouth twitched up at the corner, and he stepped away from her, spell apparently broken.

"Ah," she hummed, trying not to pout. "And what, pray tell, would be the 'right moment'?"

He pulled his jacket off, moving across the room to drop it on a counter. He unbuttoned the vest, deft fingers making quick work of the fine garment. He loosened his shirtsleeves, then his collar, casually, like he meant nothing of it.

"Probably after I've made you very angry at me," he said. "That'd be the biggest challenge."

For reasons she refused to identify, her eyes were drawn to the muscles at his neck, and the hints of shoulder and collarbone his loose shirt revealed – probably the most of his skin she'd ever seen. She was showing far more, of course, and there was no reason for her to blush. Still, if she'd thought he looked dashing all dressed up, this state of undress was…

She had to shake herself out of it.

"Are you saying kissing me any other time wouldn't be a challenge?" she asked, tone striving for unaffected. She may or may not have managed it.

"Not at all," he replied, easily. "I'm saying I don't steal diamonds while they're in storage. I take them when they're surrounded by velvet rope and security sensors and pretty glass."

"So, I'm a conquest."

He took a few careful steps closer to her.

"Hypothetically, you're a jewel."

"Actually, you're an ass."

His eyes danced. "Keep getting worked up like that and you're going to tempt me."

She took a few steps toward him, dropping her voice low.

"As if I don't tempt you every second of every hour of every day we spend on this heap of metal."

He quirked an eyebrow. "You're right," he agreed. "I'm tempted to ask you to end it all for me now. I can't take another day of Ray's whining and Rip's moping. I can't take the others either, but I can't remember their names right now."

Her eyes lighted on a neat pile of clothes. She stepped closer, close enough that she brushed his arm as she reached behind him, plucking his regular thermal shirt off the top. She met his eyes, not looking away as she put it on, deliberate as she fanned her hair over her shoulders.

"That's mine," he said, frowning.

"Oh," she breathed, feigning innocence. "Is it? Well, you can just wear mine. You'll look great in it."

He let out a breath that may have been a groan, but didn't argue. She suspected he couldn't.

"You know, Snart," she said, "you're not a very good liar. Even though that's your thing."

He rolled his eyes. "No, my thing is stealing. You can pretend I'm as good or as bad of a liar as you want. But I am one hell of a thief."

That sounded like a challenge. "Alright then," she agreed. "Prove it."

He folded his arms across his chest, and there was that damn smirk, _again_. "Don't have to. You'll come to me."

And suddenly, she remembered why she found him _so_ annoying.

"When hell freezes over," she said, narrowing her eyes and heading for the door. She'd had enough of this.

"Think I can manage that," he replied, and she didn't even hesitate.

"Manage this."

He left with a knife-sized hole in his sleeve.

But later that night, when the bloodlust flared up, rushing beneath her skin and threatening to spill out and over and destroy her, she remembered the way her world had quieted by the blue of his eyes. And somehow, without even thinking about it, she ended up at his room.

It was a bad idea and she knew it. Bad because her instability could put him in danger. Bad because in very different ways, he was a little dangerous for her.

But it didn't matter. Because she was there, and she wasn't sure what it meant, but she needed it.

"Just so we're clear," she said, letting herself in without knocking. "This isn't me 'coming to you.'"

"Oh really," he said, mouth twitching. "Then what is it?"

"Couldn't sleep. Saw your light was on."

"You saw my light was on through a metal door with no cracks?"

She just shrugged, climbing onto his bed without asking and helping herself to his bag of chips. She watched him watching her, warily, like he was still trying to decide if he was looking at a diamond or a viper.

Maybe a little of both. Still, he didn't ask her to leave.

"Gin?" was all he said, holding up a deck of cards.

She nodded, feeling relief from the pressure of the bloodlust at the sight of those damn eyes. Of course, it caused a whole different kind of tension. She did her best to beat those thoughts out of her head. She may have failed.

They played in silence for a while. She lost a round, and then two.

"Was anything you said tonight true?" she asked, before she could decide whether she really wanted to know, or just tease him.

He stared at his cards. "I do wish I'd kissed you instead of Valentina."

His words were soft, without pretense, without suggestion. And they made her pause.

 _You can pretend I'm as good or as bad of a liar as you want,_ he'd said. Like it was up to her to choose if he was just trying to get under her skin, or if he meant it.

"So why don't you try it?" she asked, testing the waters. "Afraid I'll bite?"

She kept her tone light, playful. Let _him_ choose if he wanted to take her up on it or not.

But he shook his head, eyes never leaving his hand. "Timing, Lance," he mused. "Timing."

She decided to drop it, focusing on their game. She looked down at her cards, then back up at him with a grin.

"Gin."

He looked up, eyebrows twitching in surprise. Then his eyes moved to her wrists. She was still wearing his shirt – and what a roomy shirt it was.

"Nice sleeves," he noted, with no small amount of sarcasm.

Her grin only widened.

"What do I get for winning?" she goaded him.

"You mean for not losing, for once?"

"Oh, you are not a good sport."

They stayed up most of the night playing, talking here and there. For the winner's pot, they doled out secrets, the ones they were ready to give up, anyway. Sara told him about the bloodlust. About how she was sick of succumbing to the monster inside herself. How she didn't want to be a killer anymore.

Leonard told her about his father, about stealing the emerald for him. How it hadn't changed anything. And maybe nothing ever would change, but if they managed to stop Savage, at least he'd prove to himself that it could.

After, back in her room – without company, although she was big enough to admit she'd been tempted to ask – she decided it hadn't been such a bad day after all. Because for the first time, in a long time, she didn't feel quite so alone.

And that was something. That gave her hope.

When she fell asleep, she dreamed of blue eyes.


End file.
